


Him

by hubbleultradeepfield



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: the 'him' in italics that's used throughout this is always referring to Walt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:52:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2892674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubbleultradeepfield/pseuds/hubbleultradeepfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to Breaking Bad's last episode, when Jesse is driving off in complete hysteria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Him

**Author's Note:**

> For English we had to write a fanfic, so I chose to write an ending to what could've been a possibility after we see the last scene of Jesse, speeding away from Walter. I wrote this all in one night around 10:45pm as it all came to me, then I thought that maybe I should just post it for others to take a read, just to get further imagination as to what actually could have happened to Jesse Pinkman.

So this is what it feels like to be the last man alive.

Jesse releases a dry chuckle as he drives endlessly following the curve in the road, tires worn as they drag along the gravel beneath.

The late dusk sky resembled a picture-perfect sunset - like the ones you see existing behind an almost wave less beach, sun rippling upon the water's surface on the horizon, equanimity.

Except it doesn't feel calming or beautiful at all.

The smell of the carbon monoxide dispelling from the cars exhaust has now filled the atmosphere around Jesse, giving him a sense of deliriousness, hallucination even. Somehow the feeling turns into of a cold-sweat and mild panic, like everything's closing in around him. Inching closer and closer and closer, suffocating. But it's not, it's not that. It can't be that, because nothing's closing in. Nothing at all. It's just him. Him and the everlasting stretch of road ahead, the road and the street lights every now and then that cast almost non-existent pale shadows across the wind shield, pale shadows. Pale shadows that brighten his trembling hands as they grip tightly on the steering wheel and the bare vacancy of the passenger seat to his right and those behind him. He doesn't know where he's going. Not right now at least. The only thought in the hollowness of his brain is to keep driving.

He thought of turning back. He did. Back to see _him_. Heartless, determined, confusing _him_. But that train of thought has been left behind, somewhere along the road.

After what feels like long enough to be paired with stark silence, his eyes flit to the radio, switching it on and hearing static expel from the speakers as he pushes at the button before finally hearing the first human voice in a while. "Breaking News: Walter Hartwell White, or Heisenberg as known for in the drug realm, has been found dead with a bullet wound to the stomach in a meth amphetamine lab at a secret location in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Sources say this abandoned property was one of ‘Heisenberg's’ many warehouses in which he cooked the substance. Seven other men, now specified by police authorities to be part of a family gang by the name of _'White Supremacist'_ , have been also found dead at this property, due to a full round of bullets being fired from a continuously revolving M60 machine gun, in the boot of a vehicle, just outside of the crime scene." Jesse fumbles at the volume. "Walter White was famous or infamous for manufacturing such a drug of its purity of 99.1%, the cleanest, most consistent quality ever. His product was even pale blue in colour, very unique for the type of substance it is," reads the radio-host, voice speaking monotonously but almost as though the woman is informing this news directly for Jesse.

Jessie is sure the car doors are falling in on each other as he sits there, ears witnessing surreality, but reality.

It's still strange to think that this man was Jesse's high school science teacher for all those years pushing him to do his best, always telling Jesse to apply himself. But it's even stranger that a couple of years later this man ended up becoming his partner in crime, literally. The familiar voice speaks again, "However, this year-long investigation isn't over yet. Walter 'Heisenberg' White had a fellow companion of who too experienced this whirlwind of money, drugs and crime. The mid-20's criminal goes by the name of Jesse Pinkman".

Everything around him from now on looks like a dream, clear but a bit blurry, like the sky and road before him could change into something else at any second. The radio becomes fuzzy in his ears and the surroundings don't feel real any more.

Jesse doesn't know when he stopped feeling.

Everyone he let get close to him has died. He doesn't want to let himself love again. Doesn't want to lose anyone else, he can't. This is what he has become. A 25 year old drop out who left home, sold and took drugs, coming across a desperate man who just wanted a way to provide for his family as he inevitably won't be here for much longer in about a year or so. Looking for a solution. The quick way out. Driving. Jesse doesn't know what else he can do. Doesn't know how to do anything else anymore. I mean, what left is there to do? It's like Jesse is paying the ultimate price for _his_ sins. Not death, - that would be the easy way out. But Jesse's living hell has become so unbearable to watch, it would almost be a relief if someone or something put him out of his misery. At least that's the way he sees the world now. He's been driving for a couple of hours now, wondering how this deserted strip of gravel doesn't seem to have intersections or an ending.

The gravel is Jesse. The midnight sky is now painted a deep sea black, and Jesse doesn't want to see the sun again.

_His_ hands have been permanently tainted the colour crimson with the blood of nearly everyone Jesse's loved; Andrea, Jane, Mike and almost Brock. Brock. He's now thinking of something, _anything_ other than rolling along a surface, searching for anything, something, nothing. Jesse never really had a father figure type of person after he left home, parents kind of disowned him and focused all their attention and hope on their second son. When Mike came into his house, cleaning up what had happened the night before with him and Jane, telling Jesse to get himself together, chemicals triggered. Now he's gone. So he thought of going to see Brock. Maybe try to be the father figure Brock never had from the start. But then again, a thought is just a thought.

Jesse doesn't know when he stopped feeling, until an entity in his mind told him to look into the glove box.

Human beings. Are we just pointless, breathing creatures? Living and toiling for survival on this planet in this universe with billions and billions of other galaxies which contain billions and billions of stars? It would make one think how small and irrelevant we actually are...how easy it is to say goodbye to it all. I mean, at this point no one would care if Jesse did end his life with the object that murders sitting in the glove box. It's that easy really, one mere twitch of the trigger is all it takes.

And that's how it ends. On the side of the gravel road, under the flickering streetlight casting a pale shadow over the dashboard, static frequencies bouncing off the car windows. Streetlights revealing auburn coloured blood seamlessly gliding down the steering wheel, dripping onto his own hands.

Out of all the people Jesse has killed and could have killed, he never thought the last one on the list would be his own.

 

Jesse didn't think he could feel again, until now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, if you liked it please leave kudos as they would be immensely appreciated, also share this to your fellow Breaking Bad fans !!


End file.
